


Hollow

by TinyThoughts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Chaos, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is always kind, Losing a friend, M/M, Memory Loss, Tumblr Prompt, Yennefer is a wise woman, a lot of hurt first tho, it turned into a monster, letting go, mean humans, no beta we die like renfri, there will be romance in the end I swear, this was going to be a short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyThoughts/pseuds/TinyThoughts
Summary: ”Im sorry, it is very frustrating not to remember. What is your name? Have we been traveling for long?”“No.” Geralt says.Liar, liar, liar, liar.“I am Geralt of Rivia. If you are uncomfortable with me here… I can… I don’t have to…If you still want to go there, that is.” His words are failing him and Jaskier gives him a gentle smile. The smell of fear is slowly dispatching and Jaskiers normal scent returns.“Im Julian.” He says.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 221





	1. Let it hurt like you hurt me

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a prompt from an anon on tumblr!  
> It gave me a lot of inspiration, and since I want to keep the air of just a little mystery I won't reveal the prompt until it's done ;)

~~*~~

  
There is a vibration in the air. A pulsing energy coming from the woman in front of them. Chaos gathering and redying to unleash itself upon them. She is anger and hurt and shuddering breaths and thunder and sadness.  
The hairs on Geralt's arms rise, her magic so palpable he can almost touch it. She is very strong, but untrained. She can bring the chaos to her, she can shape it and give it intent, and she can most likely kill this entire village.  
Geralt flexes his grip on the sword. He has to time this exactly right. He raises his other hand, ready to sign Aard if need be.

~

In the end he doesn’t time it right. The world screeches to a halt, everything is white, red, blurry, and then Jaskier is falling to his knees in front of Geralt.  
“No.” Geralt breathes. “No no no, Jaskier! I told you to stay back!”  
The woman in front of them laughs an empty laugh.  
“I am sorry, witcher. I meant it for them, for you, but maybe this is better.” Her smile is without malice, without life, without colour.She puts her face to the darkening sky, admiring the first eager starsp peeking out on the night sky. Her skin turns grey, and slowly she is ash in the wind.

 _“Let it hurt you like it hurt me.”_ Her shadow whispers and she is gone.

Geralt drops his sword and throws himself over Jaskiers still form. Panic crashes through his body, wave after wave hitting him.  
Jaskier, the fool, stepped in front of him. Protected him. Jaskier wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to stay with the other villagers, he was supposed to be safe.

His mouth tastes like iron, bile, smoke, it is so dry he can barely talk nor pray to anything, anyone who might hear him.  
“Jaskier, I am so sorry, please please, Jaskier…”  
 _A month._ It was a month since the last time Jaskier was in danger because of him. Became hurt because of him.  
Slowly he turns Jaskier over so Geralt can see his face. There is no visible damage, and it makes Geralt's heart plummet. Physical hurts he can deal with, treat, clean, bandage.  
Magical hurts however are infinitely more complicated.  
Jaskier makes a small groan, eyes fluttering, when Geralt propps him up in his arms. Behind them he can hear the village open their doors, looking out at what is happening.  
“Is she gone?” Someone calls out to them. Geralt can’t answer. Jaskier is so pale, sweat appearing by his hairline.  
“Healer!” Geralt finally shouts over his shoulder. “Bring me your healer!”

There are rushing steps and then someone sits down by his side.  
A woman with a long braid and an apron puts her hand to Jaskiers face, to his body. She takes his pulse, smells his breath, looking at his pupils. Poking, prodding, pulling at clothes hunting for wounds or bruises.  
The bard's pale skin is unhurt, except the still healing scar on the side of his stomach. The healer gives Geralt a sideyed look, stern, and keeps examining him. Geralt knows. He blames himself for that one too.

“He will live.” She announces after a surprisingly short time, sitting back. “There is nothing physically wrong with him. The rest we will know when he wakes up.”  
The healer gets up, pats Geralt on the shoulder and moves back to the village. Nobody else dared come to them, but he can sense their eyes on his back.  
No matter. Geralt must take Jaskier to the inn, to their room, to safety, away from prying eyes. Carefully, with as much gentleness as he can muster, he picks up his bard and carries him close to his chest.  
Every breath expanding Jaskiers chest against his own is a small blessing.

~

There is no sleep. No meditation. There is only watching over his friend, his companion, his one truth for all these years.  
He put Jaskier in one of the beds. The bard has yet to wake up, so he tucks the blanket around his limp body. Then Geralt waits.  
Head in his hands, ears straining to hear every heartbeat, the armor still on his body, Geralt sits by Jaskiers bedside on a very rickety footstool.  
At some point he has to stretch, and he sit down on his own bed instead.

He hates contracts like this. He knew something wasn’t right, knew it the moment he stepped into her hut.  
She mourned, her eyes rimmed with red. The villagers wanted her dead, had claimed her a beast when a man died. Geralt don’t kill people.  
When they talked to her, Jaskiers words a balm on her hurt, they learned how they mistreated her. Abused her. Everybody but the man who died.  
“He was the one thing I loved, and they took it from me.”

It became clear she was after vengeance. Geralt doesn’t kill people, but he can't let her harm them. He can’t let her become him. He would stand between them, protect them from each other.

And Jaskier took the hit for it. Caring, loving, forgiving Jaskier, who never knows when to do what he has been told.

~

Sometime during the night he must have slumbered. That, or he didn’t notice the time passing. The stars hide behind the clouds, the sun slowly crawling out and tainting the sky with harsh reds and yellows.

The first rays of the morning sun find its way through the window. Jaskier stirs and Geralt's heart almost stops. When he looks up he sees the bard stretch his arms above his head, blinking his eyes open.

“Oh.” Jaskier says. “uhm...Good morning. Where am I?”  
Geralt exhales, a breath he has been holding since the moment Jaskier crumpled to the ground.  
“At the inn. You got hurt last night because of me. Again.” Geralt says, bitterness heavy in his voice.  
Jaskiers face is carefully blank as he studies the witcher.  
“Oh.” Is all he says again. It feels… wrong. Something is off. By now Jaskier would have told Geralt three times over what an idiot he is and how he should stop worrying.  
But he says nothing.

The silence is heavy and Geralt is very much not sure on what to do. Finally, he gets to his feet. When he does, Jaskier pulls his blanket up a little higher. There is an odd smell in the room now, one he can’t exactly place. Geralt frowns, and finally walks over to the door.  
“I’ll go fetch the healer.” he says, feeling awkward. Has the time finally come for Jaskier to blame him?  
Jaskier just nods. When no other reactions, words come from his friend, Geralt walks out. Hopefully the healer will know what is wrong.

~

“He doesn’t know you.” The healer says when she exits the room. Geralt had per request waited outside when she looked over Jaskier. It stung, but he accepted it.  
But this…  
“What does that mean?” Geralt asks, frown deepening. He still hasn't gotten out of his armor. He stands there looming over her but feeling like the smallest person in the world.  
“It means he has no memory of you, doesn’t know who you are or why he is here.” She says, voice cold.  
“I… but… is he hurt?” He asks her, but the healer shakes her head.  
“No. The magic must have altered his memories, I'm not sure to what extent, but he is otherwise fine.”  
They stand in silence for a while. Geralt pondering what to do, how to help, she just studying him.

“Witcher, I am going to be frank with you.” She says finally. “I think you should let him go. He is not safe with you.”  
“That is not your decision to make.”  
“No, it’s not. But you know it’s true. People never survive around your kind for long.” She says it with such disdain, such cold eyes.  
“We will leave when he is ready.” He says, trying to control himself, his anger. He walks past her and into their room. How does she fucking dare.

He close the door behind him, seething. Jaskier stands with his back to the door, pants loose on his hips, putting his shirt back on.  
Geralt just stands there, watching him. Jaskier notices him and suddenly that smell is back.  
Oh.

Geralt didn’t understand what it was, because it was never a smell he ever associated with Jaskier.  
Fear.  
It breaks Geralt's heart a thousand times over.  
Jaskier truly does not remember him.  
“Sorry.” He mumbles. “How are you feeling?” Geralt doesn't know where to look, because this is his fault. All of it.

Jaskier looks at him, face blank but eyes wary. With slow movements he stuffs his shirt in his pants.  
“Im fine.”  
Geralt moves over to his bed, sits down on the covers.  
“You really don’t remember me?” Geralt asks, and he knows, he knows, but he can’t help but torture himself.  
Jaskier cocks his head.  
“I really don’t, I'm afraid. Do we know each other?” Jaskier gives him a careful smile.

There is a whirlwind in Geralt's head. The years they spent together. Summer nights in front of the fire, Jaskier gently playing his lute and Geralt caring for his swords. Quiet mornings before a hunt, Jaskier fussing over his armor. Roach shoving at Jaskier when she can smell the treats he always keeps for her in his pockets. Yennefer and Jaskier bickering over their wine, Jaskiers constant river of words, the way he always, always steps in front of Geralt when all Geralt wants is to keep him safe.  
How can he keep Jaskier safe? How can Jaskier be safe by his side?

He is silent for too long. Jaskiers smile falters, crumbles. Geralt did that too. He pulls in a breath, holds it in his lungs, but the heavy feeling won't go away.  
“Witcher?” He doesn’t even remember his fucking name. He exhales.  
“We have been traveling together for a while.” Geralt says, closing his eyes, the heavy feeling won’t leave his chest, there is a pounding happening in his temples, his fingers want to clench onto something.  
“I was taking you to Oxenfurt.” It is not a lie. He would never, will never, lie to his bard. His bard. They have been talking about going there sometime. Why not now?  
A small line appears between Jaskiers eyebrows, Geralt imagines he is looking for a memory, a confirmation.  
“Im sorry, it is very frustrating not to remember. What is your name? Have we been traveling for long?”  
“No.” Geralt says.  
Liar, liar, liar, liar.  
“I am Geralt of Rivia. If you are uncomfortable with me here… I can… I don’t have to…If you still want to go there, that is.” His words are failing him and Jaskier gives him a gentle smile. The smell of fear is slowly dispatching and Jaskiers normal scent returns.  
“Im Julian.” He says.

  
_Let it hurt you like it hurt me._

~

They set out together later that day. They don’t talk about what happened the day before. They barely talk at all. It is only two weeks of travel to get to Oxenfurt, and Geralt is not sure if it is a blessing or a curse. He has two weeks to either get Jaskier back, or let him go.  
He feels so utterly selfish, keeping this choice from Jaskier, to not let him be the one to choose. But he is simply not brave enough.

The first night under the open sky is oddly enough very much like normal. Without a word they split the tasks of making a fire, putting out bedrolls and preparing food the same way they always do.

When Jaskier fetches their bedrolls, Roach buffs his arm, begging for a treat.  
Geralt watches them from where he is digging out a hole for their fire. Jaskier smiles at her, petting her head gently, talking to her in soft tones. She buffs him again and tries to get into his pockets.  
“Im sorry girl, look, I have nothi-....” Geralt hears him trail off when he puts his hand in his pocket, only to find a sugarcube. His confusion is evident, his smile gone, but he holds it out for her.

When they are sitting by the fire, passing a cheese and some bread between them, Geralt watches Jaskier. He doesn't know what to do, what to say.  
“Why can I remember Roach but not you?” Jaskier suddenly asks, eyes fixed on the flames. The light flickers and paints his features in red and orange and sharp shadows.  
Geralt cuts off a piece of cheese and puts the rest down on the cloth between them.  
“What did the healer tell you?”  
“That I was hit with magic that altered something in my mind. She wasn’t sure of what exactly, but she wasn’t very worried about it.” Of course she wasn’t. “I don’t remember what happened that night at all.” It would finally seem like the floodgates opened. Somehow it soothes Geralt to hear him, even if the words uttered makes it worse.  
Geralt is quiet, chewing on his cheese slowly.  
“I fought a woman with untamed chaos. She lost her love and wanted revenge. You stepped in front of me when she unleashed her magic.”  
Jaskier nods, and sinks into his thoughts again. They barely talk for the rest of the evening. Jaskier asks no questions and Geralt is too conflicted about it all to make smalltalk.  
They go to bed, and when Jaskiers breath evens out and the small familiar snores fill the air together with the crackles from the dying fire, Geralt allows himself to fall.  
The worry, the relief, the numbing panic, the fear of loss, but he already lost him didn’t he?  
At least he is not dead.

~

It is weird to make smalltalk with someone he has known for years. To listen to him talk about his parents, anecdotes from his studies. He even tells him about a bar fight that he started. He tells it as if Geralt wasn’t there, right next to him, hauling his ass out of there when it got too heated.  
What is worse is that Geralt learns new things about his friend, about his past.  
And Jaskier keeps referring to himself as Julian.  
Every now and then there is a whiff of fear from Jaskier. Geralt tries to keep the sadness from his face. The Jaskier without Geralt will have a safe life where he won’t ever need to feel fear.

Jaskier hasn't touched his lute since they left.

~

“I um… thank you witcher.” Jaskier says awkwardly. They are outside the gates of his university. “Do I pay you now or uhm…?”  
“No. It’s fine.”  
“Will you stay here for a while? Or out on the Path again?”  
“Roach needs to rest, so I’ll stay for the night.”  
“Roach?”  
“....My horse….”  
“Right. Right. Sorry.”  
Jaskier is frowning again. He does that a lot now.  
“You know, we could take a drink together? As a thank you?”  
This is goodbye. Geralt can see it.  
“If you want to.”

~

They sit across each other in the tavern. The lighting is dim and it smells like dust and stale ale. The table probably hasn't been wiped in the last ten years, and when Geralt lifts his tankard there is a sticky sound as the table doesn’t want to let go.

It has always been hard to find words. They are tricky, deceptive, easy to misimprent. Tonight is no exception. They stick to his throat, cling to the roof of his mouth, refusing to get out.  
Geralt has never felt dread like this.

“Why do you look so sad, master witcher?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head.  
A drunk, angry man comes up to their table before Geralt can compose an answer. His cheeks are blotchy red, eyes watery and he reeks of alcohol and unwashed body.  
“The white fucking wolf, the freak of fucking nature.” He growls. “Butcher of fucking Blaviken.”  
Jaskiers eyes widen a fraction, something like recognition flickers across his face. That probably rang some kind of bell. It was so long ago. Why should it matter to anybody but him anymore? Geralt sighs, deciding that ignoring the man is the best option.  
“Heey! I'm talking to you, asshole!” the man slurs.  
“Leave off.” Jaskier says, a hint of anger coloring his voice.  
“Ain’t fucking talking to you, bard.” The drunkard says, waving around making his drink slosh down over his arm and onto their table.  
Jaskier looks confused for a moment, like there is something just out of his minds reach.  
“You mutant bastard, you are as much a monster as what you fucking slay” the drunkard slurs on. It has been a long time since last he was talked to like this. Much thanks to Jaskiers impressive work.

A woman with hair the colour of straw comes up to the drunkard, grabbing his elbow.  
“Are you nuts?” She hiss at him. “Don’t insult a witcher! Do you want to die?!” and she drags him away.  
Jaskier looks after them as they walk away.  
“Are you always treated like this?” he frowns. Geralt is really starting to hate that look on him.  
“Not as much anymore.”  
They sit in silence.  
“Every time I look at you, witcher, I have this nagging feeling. Like there is something I'm missing.” Every fiber of Geralt being wants to tell him. Wants to break that fucking spell, get his friend back.  
But he can’t.  
The healer is right.  
Jaskier has a big scar and a lost memory as proof.  
He will not survive a witchers company much longer.  
“Either way, master witcher, thank you for bringing me safely back here. I hope our roads will cross again.”

~

Geralt walks hurriedly away among the trees. It takes everything he has not to just take off running. His muscles are stiff from holding back, there is a churning inside his ribs, his eyes are burning.  
When he finally is far enough not to see or hear or smell Oxenfurt anymore, he sinks to his knees, lets go. He can fetch Roach in the morning.

He is anger and hurt and shuddering breaths and thunder and sadness.

He lets it all out in the darkness where no one can see.


	2. Slipping through my minds fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not abandoned nor forgotten! Sometimes words just struggle with their self worth and needs some time to grow!  
> Here is part 2 of Hollow, and for the observant one you might notice there will be a part 3?? when it was only supposed to be a part 2??
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter in the meantime as i work on the last and final part!   
> I am still very happy with this work and I hope you will like it too! <3

It’s early morning. Julian can’t explain it to himself, but he wants to be there when the witcher leaves. He can’t stand the thought of the man just disappearing.

The night before was so odd, the resigned hurt written over the witcher's features as they sat across each other in the filthy tavern. Like he was holding back, like there rumbling forces above a dam moments before it breaks. And there is that feeling when he looks at him, at his white hair, scars and yellow eyes. That feeling where he feels like he is missing something important, a small scratching on the inside of his ribs insisting he keeps an eye on him.

So Julian stands by the stable waiting for the witcher. One would expect him to come from the inn, but to his surprise Geralt comes from the streets. His gait is slow, exhausted. His hair is mussed and filled with leaves and moss and when he gets closer Julian can see his knuckles are scraped raw and his eyes are red and swollen. Haunted.  
Geralt's eyes do not leave the cobblestones beneath his feet until he is just a few steps from Julian. There he stops mid motion, eyes latching on to Julian and he looks so… sad. Deflated, as if the air in his lungs left and refused to return. His nostril flares and Julian can see it happening, how a lid is put on whatever is simmering in there.  
“Jask-... Julian.” Geralt greets. For some reason, the name sounds flat on his lips. Wrong.  
“Good morning master witcher.” Julian responds with an incline of his head. “I wanted to see you off. I have always found goodbyes hard.”   
The witcher gives a weak smile not reaching his eyes.  
“They are.” He says and ducks into the stables. Julian follows close behind him and the smell of straw, fur and that distinct scent of horse hits him. It is comforting, but also just a little confusing. Julian rarely spends time around horses.

Together they take care of the witchers mare. Julian likes her eyes and he smiles when he buffs his arm.  
“Sorry, I got no treats, honey.” He is not sure why, but it hits him hard, how could he forget to bring a treat for her? She seems to be such a sweet thing.  
“Did you get a contract last night?” he asks the witcher, who just grunts. It seems to be his prefered way of communicating, spicing it up from time to time with a little “fuck”. During their two weeks together Julian almost has it figured out, and he interprets this as a solid maybe.  
Jaskier rubs absently at his side, he has a scar he almost remembers getting and the new skin is still tight and stiff and a little itchy.  
They reach the outer walls surrounding the city and walk under the gate. Awkwardly they stand by the side of the busy road, trying to figure out what to say. Why is this so hard?

”Do me a favor Jask- Julian. Let a magic wielder look at you. Mage or witch or something. To make sure the spell didn't do anything else.” Geralt says quietly.  
Julian had almost forgotten about the spell. Honestly he finds it hard to care about, there is so much going on in his head right now. Confusion, mostly, and for some reason a lot of sadness and a little fear.  
Julian is not sure he likes the witcher leaving.   
It doesn’t sit right with him, but who is he to ask him to stay? They are not friends, they don’t know each other?  
“Julian?” The witcher asks, and there it is again. That off-ness when the witcher says his name. Julian looks up at him, ripped out of his reveries. Right, there was a question.  
“Uhm, yeah, sure. I’ll look into it.” He says, trying to keep that thought from slipping away. It seems to fight him, wriggling out of his fleeting grasp, slippery between his mind's fingers.   
They watch a carriage pass, dust rushing up in its wake, particles dancing in the early morning light. Neither of them make any indication to move.  
“I guess this is goodbye.” Julian finally says.  
The witchers fist tightens around the reins in his hands. He is still staring after the carriage and Julian is staring at him.  
“Or maybe…” Julian thinks out loud, a nervous flutter of excitement sparking into existence in his chest. “I could join you? Travel with you for a while? See the world?”   
“No.” The reply is short, definite. The fluttering crumbles, sinks, lands heavy and weighs him down.  
The witcher's horse steps a little, impatient to get moving. On instinct Julian puts a hand on her neck to calm her, her fur warm beneath his fingers. He is not sure who is comforting who, but this mare has a calming impact on him. And because he is looking at her, Julian misses the pained expression of the witcher.  
“You are not safe with me.” Geralt says, and really, Julian understands. He was not very comfortable during their travels, the ground was hard and cold even through a bedroll.  
“Please Jas-Julian. Find a magic wielder. Be safe.”  
With that, the witcher mounts his horse, gives him a brief nod, and turns their backs to him. And Julian just stands there, letting the noise of the waking city behind him wash over his curiously empty mind. He stands there as long as he can see them, and then he stands there a little while longer.

The halls of the Oxenfurt University are big and echoing. Perfect acoustics for singing, if that was something you liked, Julian mused as he walked through them. He walks through the corridors and halls on his way to the room assigned to him.   
It’s the same one he always had, but it doesn’t give him the sense of comfort he expected. His sleeping pallet is soft, his writing desk neat and tidy, ready for a day's work. So why does he feel so restless?  
He moves about in the room, not really doing anything. The witcher gets further and further away for every minute and Julian just can’t get it out of his mind.   
A soft knock on the door pulls him back to reality. He moves to open it, and for some reason he really, really wishes for it to be him. Geralt, right? The witcher, Geralt, will be on the other side of the door, asking him to join him on the road.

It’s not the Witcher.  
It is one of the professors, Julian is sure his name is O-something.  
“Good morning Professor Pankratz.” O-something smiles at him. He is an elderly man with fine clothing and a few extra pounds around the middle and a moustache. “I came to wake you for the morning meal, but I see you are already up and about.”   
Jaskier stands with his hand still on the handle, squeezing it a little. Of course it would not be him. There is no reason he would want Julian with him on the road.   
It is with some reluctance that Julian follows O-something to the dining hall. He laughs and smiles and eats with the other professors and scholars and students. They all seem to be surprised to see him, talking about some muse Julian had found on the road.  
Huh.   
Is that why he feels so empty? Because his muse is gone? They all ask him of stories from the road, of his muse, and he would be glad to answer if he felt like he knew how.  
The feeling of unease washes over him, and the spoonful of porridge he just placed in his mouth just refuses to go down. The others don’t notice his silence, his turmoil, and as soon as he can get that horrid piece of food down he excuses himself.  
Pure muscle memory brings him back to his chambers, so deep in thought he barely registers his surroundings. When safe behind his door again Julian stops in the middle of the room and just stares into nothing.  
If he did find a muse, as he dreamed of his entire life, why would he possibly let them go? Did they die? Get tired of him and left? That did happen more than once, a small lonely voice in the back of his mind reminds him. Absently he drags a hand over the side of his stomach, over the scar he almost remembers. 

His eyes fall on a case next to his bed. It looks like it might contain an instrument of some kind. Did someone leave it in this room for storage?   
Placing it on his bed, he drags his fingers over the fine grains of wood. It feels oddly familiar under his fingers, and something makes him open it to look inside.  
The case holds a beautiful lute in perfect condition. He can tell someone cared deeply for it, there is barely a scratch on it. And under the lute Julian finds notes bound together by a string. He picks them up and flips through the pages. Precious paper and ink and so many words collected.   
With a start he recognizes his own handwriting, his own way to express himself, but the words are unknown. 

They are lovesongs. Poems, thoughts, feelings unadulterated and raw and overflowing. It’s spilling over, the ink rippling waves of ebb and flow, raging storms against the cliffs that seems to be Julian.  
He was in love with someone. 

Julian has no recollection of writing this. None at all. Was this from a drunken stupor? He did have a stormy relationship with his countess, and he did drink a lot during that time. He sits down on the bed and leans back against the wall, getting comfortable.  
There are no dates. Here and there you can see the shade of the ink change. He kept notes long enough for the ink to run out at least three times. Either he was drunk for longer than he remembers, or there is something wrong here.

When next Julian looks up, his neck is aching and his back is stiff. If the new shadows in the room is anything to go by, he’s been at it far longer than he thought. And he is none the wiser.  
Carefully he puts the case under the bed for safekeeping, the notes he puts on his desk. The writing is really good, and he grumbles over how he could possibly have forgotten about it as he leaves the room to reacquaintance himself with his life in Oxenfurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on tumblr! Im Dapandapod! <3

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Say hi to me on Tumblr! @dapandapod!~


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